Her eyes fell to the ground. “It would not annoy me,” she said almost inaudibly, but now that I was invited to do the very thing that I had been longing to do, I became dumb; I could think of nothing to say. “You see,” she continued in her normal voice, “conditions are very different now from any that I have ever before encountered. The rules and restrictions under which I have lived among my own people cannot, I now realize, be expected to apply to situations so unusual or to people and places so foreign to those whose lives they were intended to govern. “I have been thinking a great deal about many things—and you. I commenced to think these strange thoughts after I saw you the first time in the garden at Kooaad. I have thought that perhaps it might be nice to talk to other men than those I am permitted to see in the house of my father, the jong. I became tired of talking to these same men and to my women, but custom had made a slave and a coward of me. I did not dare do the things I most wished to do. I always wanted to talk to you, and now for the brief time before we shall be again aboard the _Sofal_, where I must again be governed by the laws of Vepaja, I am going to be free; I am going to do what I wish; I am going to talk to you.” This naïve declaration revealed a new Duare, one in the presence of whom it was going to be most difficult to maintain an austere Platonicism; yet I continued to steel myself to the carrying out of my resolve. “Why do you not talk to me?” she demanded when I made no immediate comment on her confession. “I do not know what to talk about,” I admitted, “unless I talk about the one thing that is uppermost in my mind.” She was silent for a moment, her brows knit in thought, and then she asked with seeming innocence, “What is that?” “Love,” I said, looking into her eyes. Her lids dropped and her lips trembled. “No!” she exclaimed. “We must not talk of that; it is wrong; it is wicked.” “Is love wicked on Amtor?” I asked. “No, no; I do not mean that,” she hastened to deny; “but it is wrong to speak to me of love until after I am twenty.” “May I then, Duare?” I asked. She shook her head, a little sadly I thought. “No, not even then,” she answered. “You may never speak to me of love, without sinning, nor may I listen without sinning, for I am the daughter of a jong.” “Perhaps it would be safer were we not to talk at all,” I said glumly. “Oh, yes, let us talk,” she begged. “Tell me about the strange world you are supposed to come from.” To amuse her, I did as she requested; and walking beside her I devoured her with my eyes until at last we came to the ocean. Far out I saw the _Sofal_, and now came the necessity for devising a scheme by which we might signal her.